


Pressed Flowers

by ficlicious



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed Syndicate - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Modern Era, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:11:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5998294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficlicious/pseuds/ficlicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was in her thirties now, for heaven’s sake; the rose-cheeked adventurer and the charming botanist were more than a decade behind them. Their lives were comfortable, if a bit boring. Not passionless, exactly, but certainly some of the fire had banked a bit. But honestly, what had she expected? After fifteen years of marriage and three children, she supposed she should just count them fortunate they had not ended up divorced like so many of their friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressed Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LunaMax1214](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMax1214/gifts).



> Written for my dearest, bestest semi-platonic lifemate, for Valentine's Day. 
> 
> Cheers, babe. <3

Evie had gotten into archaeology dreaming of Indiana Jones and finding fabulously ancient relics. Exotic locales, dust and sand in her hair, dirt under her fingernails as she triumphantly unearthed lost artifacts of vanished civilizations. Had she known that her ultimate fate would be a post as a curator at the British Museum, prestigious though it was, she might have gone a different route and become a counselor for troubled youth, like Jacob had. 

The only digging she did these days was in Henry’s flower beds. When he let her. Which was rare. Henry’s blossoms were prize-winning, his greenhouses on the property filled with exotic and rare plants from across the world. Sometimes, when her thoughts were dark and uncharitable, she thought Henry treasured his greenery more than he treasured her.

She knew these things happened, as couples grew older together. She was in her thirties now, for heaven’s sake; the rose-cheeked adventurer and the charming botanist were more than a decade behind them. Their lives were comfortable, if a bit boring. Not passionless, exactly, but certainly some of the fire had banked a bit. But honestly, what had she expected? After fifteen years of marriage and three children, she supposed she should just count them fortunate they had not ended up divorced like so many of their friends.

Evie blew out a breath in a long, explosive sigh and propped her chin on her hand, turning to look out the window. Dreary rain lashing coldly against the window. It chilled Evie to the bone just looking at it. She hoped it would be gone by the time she finished for the day, but knew even as she thought it she was chasing pipe dreams. February was a horrid month for weather and warmth.

“Chin up, Evie Green,” she said softly, making an effort to focus on the paperwork in front of her. “Things always look darker in the rain. The sun’ll be out tomorrow. You’ll see.”

She was good at giving herself pep talks. She wasn’t half as good at believing them.

\------

Evie turned up her collar against the blowing rain as she stepped off the bus, bidding farewell to the driver, Agnes, as she did so. She hunched into her jacket and moved at a quick trot towards her front gate, cursing in a decidedly heated manner when the latch caught and she had to fight with it before the gate opened. Henry had had his chance to repair it, she thought as she all but kicked it closed behind her again. Tomorrow, she was going to dig through his toolbox and fix the damned thing herself. 

Her key stuck in the door. Another minor repair Henry had promised to take care of. Another thing she would have to shoulder herself, because Henry was off on another one of his lecture circuits and wouldn’t return until next week sometime. By the time she managed to get the lock turned, she was near to crying with frustration. 

She didn’t even have the wherewithal to care that she left puddles in the porch, or that her boots were not neatly tucked in the closet with the other shoes. Or even that she left her jacket piled in a sopping heap on the floor. A glass of wine, dinner, and a hot bath were in order. In that order. 

“Aubrey! Elliot! Violet!” she called as she paused by the staircase beside the foyer. “I’m home!” She paused, listening for any of her children to reply, but none of them did. “Are you here? Kids?”

No response. The house was unnaturally silent. She frowned and turned to continue on her way to the kitchen. Were they at a friend’s home? She’d forgotten such things before. Hopefully, the twins remembered to write their study dates or sleepovers down on the family calendar on the wall beside the refrigerator, otherwise she would be all night trying their mobiles and their friends’ parents mobiles tracking them down.

Two steps away from the staircase, her socked toes crunched on something on the floor. Reflexively, she looked down to see a stem poking out from under her foot. She frowned and bent to pick it up; a pressed flower, brittle with age. “Iris,” she said softly, in surprise, twirling it slowly in her fingers. “What…?”

She looked up, eyes drawn by another splash of faded color. Another dried flower, this one a blue hyacinth. Beyond it, a trail of flowers, scattered in the hall and leading into the kitchen. A red camillia. Chrysanthemums in red and white. Forget-me-nots and jonquils, tangled together. Blue violets and scarlet zinnias. Piles of them, scattered like wheat, that she bent and picked up one by one.

By the time she got to the red tulips, her eyes had filled with tears. Her hands were overflowing with messages, all of them Henry’s words of love and constancy, devotion and passion. She turned the corner into the dining room, drawn by the soft glow of candlelight, and her breath caught in her throat. “Oh,” she said, dashing away the tears from her cheeks. 

The table, normally piled with schoolwork and Evie’s and Henry’s papers, chairs shoved in willy-nilly, had only two place settings, carefully laid on a white cloth. 

In front of her plate, a crystal vase with a single rose, red, full bloom. Opposite her chair, her husband, smiling gently at her in the candlelight reflecting from the silver cloches as he rose from his own chair. “Did you know, Miss Frye, that there is a language spoken only in the symbolic meaning of flowers?”

She laughed and sniffled, looking at the flowers piled in her hands. “I had heard something of the sort, Mr. Green,” she replied. “I am acquainted with something of an expert in the field. Where are the children?”

“With your brother,” he said, reaching out to clasp her hands around the flowers. “For the entire weekend. If you’re agreeable, I’ve made plans.”

“Oh, have you now?” Her previous mood was firmly banished under the warmth of Henry’s gaze, and she smiled up at him. “Do these plans involve peeling Violet off the ceiling when we go to collect them? You know how Jacob fills her head with tales of dashing, daring gentlemen thieves.”

“My plans are as follows: dinner, from Westhouse’s,” he says, gesturing at the covered plates and the set table. “Your favorite, chicken and wild mushroom ravioli, and lamb shoulder with summer vegetables. Then dessert: chocolate lava cake. A bottle of wine on the porch swing. Then…” And his eyes took on a gleam of promise, one that made Evie’s breath catch in an entirely different manner. “I believe retiring upstairs is on the schedule. And may possibly comprise the entirety of tomorrow’s schedule as well.” 

Evie smiled, let the flowers rain down over his shoulders as she looped her arms around his neck. “And peeling Violet off the ceiling?” she teased, carding her fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Sunday,” he replied promptly, dipping his head to kiss her gently. “ _ Late _ Sunday evening.”

They made it through dinner and dessert, but the plans for the bottle of wine were abandoned shortly thereafter the meal, in favor of more intimate pursuits. 

They didn’t quite make it to the bedroom either, and Evie picked crushed flower petals out of her hair -- and other, more embarrassing places -- for a week straight.

  



End file.
